


(Almost) Always

by MaverikLoki



Series: TnT [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alrik is one of them, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, More angst, Past Abuse, current abuse, sassmasters, some Templars are dicks, why is everyone glowing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Fenris' conversation with Hawke, that many people believe existed about his so called "virginity", is nothing more than an explanation that he'd never had someone before (a relationship, not sex).</p><p>His conversations can be considered misleading, which is understandable.</p><p>Meanwhile we have Anders saying he was lucky with the Templars. There is no confirmation of sexual abuse that I know of, but this might also be considered misleading. Lucky, while meaning rape and torture, might simply mean he wasn't physically forced, but blackmailed. Or it might mean that there were no beatings, but there had been abuse and assault.</p><p>What Anon would like to read is a story in which Fenris and Anders reach an understanding, perhaps even start a romantic relationship, because of their past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Timing

**Author's Note:**

> **Now with a[shiny new podcast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4238769) by Kess!**
> 
> **The timeline here is a bit fluid: Fenris has already confronted Danarius and Varania, but everything else is as it is in Act 2. Shh, just trust me.

There was a knock on the door.  
  
“The clinic is closed,” Anders growled without sparing the door a glance.  
  
He was currently very _busy_ , thank you, or at least the gorgeous blond on his knees was, and _Maker_ , but it had been _too long_.  
  
A pause, and then the knocking turned into a pound.  
  
“Andraste’s flaming knickers,” Anders groaned, half in frustration, half in rapture as what’s-his-name did something truly innovative and possibly illegal with his tongue. Another, more insistent bang. If a knock could sound indignant, this was it. There were words too this time, but he was too far gone to care. “No!” he shouted at the door. “I don’t care if you’re bleeding, hurting, or dying! I don’t care if the Maker himself has infected all of Kirkwall with the Blight! Come back in the morning!”  
  
The word “morning” came out a touch breathier than he would have liked, but, oh, now there were _hands_ with that mouth, and he was going to get splinters the way he was gripping the desk.  
  
Oh, Maker, but he was –!  
  
If he could just –!  
  
The door slammed open.  
  
No, that wasn’t right. The door _shattered_ , and judging from the screech his new blond friend made as he scrambled away, he’d been the one to get splinters after all.  
  
Cursing, Anders fumbled to cover himself. The silhouette in the doorframe was familiar but distinctly un-Templar-shaped, so he didn’t drop a fireball on his head. Yet.  
  
“Get out,” a gravelly voice snarled, and what’s-his-name was out the door in an instant, cheeks flushed and hair tousled.  
  
“I’m sorry about…” Anders called out, but he trailed off when the man didn’t even bother to glance back, “…all this.”  
  
Fenris stalked over, looming over him with his arms crossed, his expression dark.  
  
“Your timing is awful,” Anders sulked, straightening so that he was glaring down at Fenris instead of up.  
  
“Yours is worse,” Fenris rejoined, his tone harsh enough to give Anders pause.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
The elf swallowed and looked away. “We found Hawke’s mother,” he said. “I… was sent to retrieve you.”  
  
“Does she need healing?” Anders asked, all business now as he snatched up his staff. He checked his pockets, gathered a few potions.  
  
“No.”  
  
Anders stilled and waited for Fenris to elaborate, but he didn’t. The elf merely looked at him— _through_ him—and marched out the door. Anders winced at the damage (he wondered how Fenris managed to avoid getting splinters with bare feet) and followed, curious but hesitant to ask. Fenris always looked like he was ready to murder someone, but right now he looked like he wanted to. Anders was not keen on being that someone.  
  
Couldn’t doom have struck later? Five minutes, that all he would have asked for.  
  
“I hope you plan to pay for that door,” he muttered.  
  
Fenris didn’t look at him, his jaw clenched.

 

 

Subdued.  
  
It was the only word that could describe the room’s mood. If he were here, Hawke would tell Fenris he was wrong, that there were plenty of ways to describe their dour gathering. Hawke was ever full of words, glib ones, and Fenris had no doubt that the man could fill the room and Fenris’ head with more jocular synonyms.  
  
But Hawke wasn’t here. They were here for Hawke.  
  
That was a first for Fenris: offering support of the emotional rather than tactical kind. He felt awkward and ham-fisted in this, his concern for his friend making his skin itch. He shifted, scratching one foot with the other, fighting not to fidget the way Merrill did across the room, bouncing her staff on the rug.  
  
The others were still enough to gather dust. Isabela and Varric sat hip-to-hip on the settee, drinks dangling from their fingertips, while Aveline stood by the doorway, fully armored and looking the part of a Kirkwall guard.  
  
Five heads turned at the sound of footsteps. Anders appeared, looking ten years older than when he’d arrived, his shoulders slumped and expression grim. He nodded to Merrill, who darted up the stairs to Hawke’s suite.  
  
Seeing Anders in the doorway, Fenris did _not_ think about how he’d looked when he’d found him. He didn’t picture Anders’ lips parted around a gasp, didn’t think of the way his hair fell free of its tie or in wild strands around flushed cheeks. He didn’t think of his voice as—  
  
“How is he?” Varric asked, and Fenris shook himself, clamping down on the rush of heat.  
  
“Physically?” Anders sighed. “Fine. But he’s still in shock.” He brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear and shook his head. “I hate seeing him like this.”  
  
The mage looked back up the stairway with an expression of aching longing that set Fenris’ teeth on edge. The man proclaimed to love Hawke, yet he’d been… been _irrumating_ another man not an hour before.  
  
It was unfair.  
  
To… to _Hawke_. Even if he lived with Merrill now and only flirted with Anders out of habit. He doubted the man even knew Anders was so love-sick over him, or at least he hoped so. Much as he couldn’t stand the mage, some things were cruel even by his standards.  
  
“I still can’t believe someone would _do_ that,” Anders murmured, shuddering. Varric had filled him in, complete with gruesome details, and the mage had looked green in the face as he’d listened. Fenris took cruel pleasure in knowing that the discussion would have killed whatever lingering arousal the mage had felt.  
  
Served him right.  
  
“I can’t believe a mage would do that,” he added.  
  
Fenris snapped to attention at that. “ _I_ can,” he growled, and Anders finally looked at him.  
  
“Don’t,” Anders said, face strained. He held up a hand, palm out. “I know, but just… _don’t_.”  
  
“Don’t what?” Fenris growled, stalking closer. He was boiling over with anger, with hurt without an outlet, and here was Anders, making his mage-loving self a target. “Don’t mention that _this_ is what the Templars fear? That _this_ is why you mages need to be watched? That you’re all capable of horrendous deeds and incomparably _dangerous_?”  
  
“And you’re _not_?”  
  
There was hurt under Anders’ indignation, and Fenris stiffened, remembering a late-night conversation they’d had by a campfire months ago. “Of course I am!” he conceded. “But I’m a _weapon_ , not a mage! I can’t summon tempests or… or raise the dead!”  
  
“No, you can just _crush a man’s heart with your bare hand_! But you shouldn’t be enslaved for that any more than we should!” Anders had stepped forward too, and now they were glaring into each other’s faces, close enough that they were breathing the same air. Anders’ cheeks were flushed again, his eyes dark, but with anger this time. “And how _dare_ you put me in the same category as that _monster_? How dare you put _Hawke_ in that category?”

Fenris bristled at the mention of Hawke, a black swell of… _something_ choking him from the inside. “Hawke is the exception that does not invalidate the rule!” he shouted. “You speak of enslavement, of pain and abuse, but you don’t know the meaning of the word!”

This close, Fenris could see every variation of color in Anders’ gold eyes, could smell the salt of his skin.

“Now, now, children,” Varric intervened, his teasing tone and smile strained. “Play nice. You’re shouting fit enough to wake the neighbors, and Hawke doesn’t need this right now.” The dwarf pressed a hand to Fenris’ chest, nudging him back. The elf stepped back obligingly, but his eyes never left Anders’. Neither so much as blinked.

“Spoilsport,” Isabela pouted. She’d leaned forward in her chair to better watch the proceedings.

“Meredith will have heard what happened by now,” Aveline said, drawing everyone’s attention. She sighed, pressing fingertips to her forehead. “Whether or not you agree with Fenris, Anders, _she_ does. The Templars will be on high alert, and you _know_ what Hawke’s been saying about this Ser Alrik. You need to be careful.”

Anders scoffed. “When are they _not_ on ‘high alert’ when it comes to apostates?” He shook his head. “I’m going back to my clinic.”

He brushed past Fenris on the way out, and the elf reached out, grabbing him by the bicep before he could think better of it. “Aveline is right, mage,” he said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “You should be careful.”

Anders tore his arm away. “Keep your threats, dog!”

“What? I wasn’t –!”

The door slammed shut behind Anders.

“Smooth,” Varric muttered. Fenris glared at him and stormed off to raid Hawke’s wine cellar.


	2. Templars

Anders wondered what ancient god he must have angered that he had to spend so much of his life in and around sewers and dark tunnels. Light spilled from his staff’s crystalline tip, carving crude shapes and colors out of the dark, and a hand clutched the back of his robes, tethering him to the trembling young mage behind him. He tried not to think about what he’d just stepped in.  
  
“We’re almost there,” he said. His voice echoed back to him.  
  
Anders glanced over his shoulder, and the apprentice, a blond girl barely in her teens, nodded, eyes wide and fragile. He smiled reassuringly.  
  
Anders knew he should have listened to Aveline and kept his head down for a while, but since leaving the Circle, the Wardens, Anders had vowed that _he_ was going to decide what he could or could not do. It was a bit childish, in hindsight, but his intentions were good. Looking at the frightened girl behind him, Anders couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty.  
  
Strapping his staff to his back, Anders clambered out of the tunnel and breathed in the slightly less disgusting air of Darktown proper. The girl climbed up after him at his signal.  
  
“Healer!”  
  
Anders turned to see a boy running towards him, his cheeks ruddy with exertion and expression urgent.  
  
“Yes? What is it?” He reached for his staff.  
  
The boy panted, gasped out, “Templars! They know a mage escaped, and someone’s told them there was an escape tunnel into Darktown!”  
  
The girl gasped and clutched again at Anders’ robe. He _really_ should have listened to Aveline. “Where are they now?” he asked, thinking quickly.  
  
The boy pointed back the way he had come, towards the clinic. “Just around the corner, Messere. You must hurry!”  
  
“Right. Lana.” He turned to the girl and took her by the shoulders. “Do you remember what I told you? How to get out of here and where to go?”  
  
“I… y-yes, Serrah.”  
  
“Go. I’ll distract the Templars.” To the boy, he pressed a few coins into his hand and said, “Find Hawke. Let him know there might be trouble.”  
  
Anders watched them go, each running as though demons nipped at their heels. Steeling himself, Anders stalked towards his clinic, keeping Justice leashed for now. Once he rounded the corner, he heard banging, the clanking of armor and the crunching of cots being tossed aside. Anders’ eyes flared blue, but he tamped it down.  
  
“He’s not here, boys. Let’s move.”  
  
A trio of Templars filed out of Anders’ clinic but stopped in the doorway when they saw him approaching.  
  
“Ser Alrik,” one of them called over his shoulder. A fourth Templar emerged, bald and with a graying goatee.  
  
“What is it?” Alrik barked. “I said let’s move!”  
  
“Can I help you?” Anders sneered, walking up to him until they were standing toe-to-toe. The bald Templar narrowed a glare at Anders, his gaze flitting up and down the mage as though taking his measure.  
  
“Well, now. You must be the… ‘herbalist’,” he said.  
  
“Yes, I must be,” Anders sneered, folding his arms across his chest. He was surrounded by Templars, all of whom had their hands on their swords’ hilts. The air around them felt deadened, and Anders knew they must be suppressing any magic in the area. He fought the urge to flee, knowing Lana needed more time. “And _this_ is a place of healing and sanctuary that your boots are mucking up.”  
  
“ _My_ boots?” Alrik eyed Anders’ feet pointedly, and Anders looked down to see his boots caked in sewage waste. He winced. Alrik tutted. “And just where have you been… Anders, isn’t it?”  
  
 _Maker_. The cretin knew who he was.  
  
Anders swallowed and fought the urge to step back and away, not wanting to show weakness and give ground. “If I said I was collecting herbs, would you believe me?”  
  
“I doubt it.” Alrik leaned close, too close, and Anders made a face, turning away from his fetid breath. Alrik toyed with a strand of Anders’ hair. The mage’s fingers twitched, aching to move, to _cast_ , and Justice paced in his mind like a caged lion, muted by the dampening spell. “Now that I think of it, my Fereldan brothers mentioned a mouthy little mage named Anders back in Kinloch Hold.”

Anders’ heart pounded in his ears. A Templar, standing this close, touching him, his underlings crowding him, giving him that _look_ –  
  
It was all too familiar.  
  
“Did they now?” Anders asked, tone openly hostile.  
  
Alrik _smiled_. “Indeed. He was quite a wild thing, apparently. Constantly acting out and trying to escape. In constant need of… _correction_.”  
  
Alrik’s hand snared in Anders’ hair, gauntlets catching. Anders grunted in pain, arching his head back to ease the pull.  
  
Justice raged impotently in the back of his mind.  
  
“He sounds like a mage I would like to put in his place,” Alrik continued, lips and beard brushing Anders’ ear. “It’s the wild ones who are the most fun to break, wouldn’t you agree, boys?” A smattering of chuckles said they did.  
  
Anders was trembling, memories flitting by like ghosts, the kind that wail and shriek and haunt the hollow places of the earth. He knew Alrik could feel him shake, and he cursed himself for the display of weakness.  
  
“Sounds to me,” Anders replied sweetly, gathering his bravado and looking through his lashes at the Templar, “like you have something of a crush on this Anders, Ser Alrik.” He clucked his tongue. “Might I recommend flowers next time? A candle-lit dinner?”  
  
Alrik’s hand in his hair _pulled_. Anders winced. “I know you’re up to something, Anders,” he growled. He shook the mage by the hair, earning a hiss of pain. “I suggest you tread carefully.”  
  
The Templar threw Anders back and away. After barking an order to his men, they left, their armor loud and clanking in the silence of Darktown. Anders cursed to himself and ran a shaking hand through his hair.  
  
“Anders?”  
  
He jumped at the sound of his name. The door to Hawke’s cellar had opened once the Templars left, and Hawke ducked into the lamplight. Anders breathed a relieved sigh and offered him a shaky smile.  
  
“Oh. Hello, Hawke.”  
  
It was the first time he’d seen Hawke leave the mansion since Leandra. The man still looked drawn, grim in a way he hadn’t been since the Deep Roads, but he also looked alert and ready for a fight. It was good to see that spark in him again.  
  
Hawke approached him, brow furrowed in concern and his knuckles white around his staff. “Were those Templars?” he asked. “Are you alright?” He cupped the back of Anders’ neck, and the mage leaned into the touch.  
  
“I’m fine, Hawke. Really.” _Better now_ , he thought when he looked up and saw Hawke’s face so close to his, _and also so, so much worse._ He licked his lips and ignored Justice’s impatient huff in the back of his mind. “We… we’re just going to need to rework the mage underground a bit.”  
  
Hawke’s eyes widened. “Do the Templars know what you’ve been doing?” His grip on Anders’ nape tightened, and the mage considered the merits of kissing the worry from his face.  
  
“They suspect.”  
  
Hawke’s jaw muscles fluttered as he looked over Anders’ shoulder, no doubt seeing the wreckage of his clinic. His thumb rubbed Anders’ skin in soothing circles, and the mage bit back a whimper. “You’re staying at the estate tonight,” he said. With a smirk that made him look like his normal self, he added, “Merrill does enjoy a sleepover.”  
  
Right. Merrill. He remembered how Hawke had told him that she’d moved in: _“Guess I have something of an elf fetish,”_ he’d joked. Anders’ answering laugh had been delayed and terribly hollow.  
  
“Right,” Anders sighed. “Because three apostates under one roof won’t catch the Templars’ attention. Brilliant.”  
  
“Just for tonight, Anders. I don’t like the way Alrik was looking at you.” Hawke’s hand slid from Anders’ neck. Anders had to fight not to chase after its touch like a love-starved puppy.  
  
“I… alright.” Anders still couldn’t say no to the man. “But just for tonight.”

 

The night was dark as pitch even in Hightown. Spring might have crept upon them, but winter’s chill still nipped at its heels. Outside, Anders’ breath had fogged before him, and he was grateful to be sitting now in Hawke’s library, by the fire with a glass of wine in his hand. Hawke sat curled in the chair opposite, absorbed in a (likely illegal) text on elemental spells with his mabari at his feet, and it was all cozy in a way that Anders wished he could hold onto.  
  
Instead Anders still found himself tensing at every sound, every shadow, half-expecting Templars to come barging in at any moment. The dog’s ear pricked, and he sat up, letting out a whine that made Anders jump.  
  
“It’s just the dog, Anders,” Hawke teased without looking up from his tome.  
  
The front door burst open, and Anders scrambled for his staff. The dog _hruffed_ as though to say “I told you so”.  
  
“Stay here,” Hawke ordered, snatching up his own staff and trotting for the door. Anders obeyed.  
  
“ _Hawke!_ ” someone bellowed, the name ricocheting down the vaulted hall.  
  
Anders stilled. That wasn’t a Templar.  
  
“ _What happened? Where is he?_ ”  
  
Anders peeked around the corner to see Fenris in the foyer, his eyes wild and markings blinding. He almost looked… _panicked_.  
  
“Where’s who?” Hawke asked, no longer battle-tensed but still holding his staff.  
  
“The _mage_!” Fenris roared, rushing at Hawke to grab him by the shirtfront. “His clinic was ransacked, and he’s nowhere to be found! The Templars must have –!”  
  
“Whoa, I’m right here, Fenris.”  
  
The elf stilled, staring first up into Hawke’s wide eyes, then looking over his shoulder at Anders in the doorway. The mage had stepped forward, his hands up, palm out, and his eyebrows raised.  
  
“Oh.” Fenris cleared his throat and released Hawke, stepping back and composing himself.  
  
If he didn’t know any better, Anders would say Fenris looked embarrassed, and Anders bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Fen-ris,” he sing-songed, dropping his hands and stepping forward, “were you _worried_ about me?”  
  
Fenris scoffed, but it was a flimsy thing. “Don’t be foolish, abomination. I... I merely wished to know which Templar I should send my thank-you fruit basket to.”  
  
Anders scowled.  
  
“The pair of you,” Hawke groaned, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll give me a heart condition. I swear it.”  
  
“Why were you even at the clinic?” Anders asked.  
  
The elf still looked flustered, staring at everything except the two mages. “I… was in the area and thought I might restock on healing poultices.” Finally looking at Anders, he asked, “What happened?”  
  
“Templars,” Hawke sighed. “You were half right. Anders is staying here for tonight, just in case.”  
  
“I see.” Something hardened in Fenris’ voice, and Anders frowned. Fenris cleared his throat again. “Very well, then. I shall collect the poultices another time.”  
  
“I… Sure. Any time.”  
  
Fenris nodded at Anders, at Hawke, and fled.  
  
Hawke and Anders looked at each other.  
  
“Well,” said Hawke, “ _that_ was strange.”  
  
Anders shook his head helplessly. “I honestly can’t tell with him anymore.”


	3. Torn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Implied non-con in this chapter.

Fenris couldn’t remember the last time Hawke had taken him and Anders on an errand together, not since clearing that spider colony on The Wounded Coast. He suspected Hawke wanted to keep Anders close after what happened at the clinic, and Fenris? Well. Hawke insisted he was his favorite elven warrior. That and he suspected Hawke of sadism, making sure he felt the full force of his embarrassment after barging in on his house last night.  
  
Fenris insisted he must have been drunker than he thought, the way he’d been ready to tear apart Kirkwall to make sure the mage was safe.  
  
At least Hawke seemed amused by the whole thing, and after what his friend had been through he supposed his pride was a small price to pay for that.  
  
“Maker, it’s always something with this mine!” Hawke groaned, cupping his forehead, and Fenris shook himself, trying to pay attention.  
  
“What happened now?” Fenris grumbled, turning to Anders and Varric as Hubert’s voice rose and fell dramatically.  
  
“Oh, dragons, destruction, Hubert whining, the usual,” Varric supplied, helpful as always. “Personally, I don’t care. I’m just glad to see Hawke acting like _Hawke_ again.”  
  
Fenris glanced at Anders, hoping he had something to add, but the mage was staring off at something and twisting his staff in his hands.  
  
“Hey, Blondie. You awake?” Varric snapped his fingers in front of Anders, who blinked and looked at him as though surprised to see him.  
  
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”  
  
Fenris frowned and turned towards whatever Anders kept looking at. A pair of Templars crossed the Hightown square, an unhappy-looking Thrask and a bald, goateed man Fenris hadn’t met.  
  
“Don’t. Don’t stare.” Anders grabbed Fenris’ arm and pivoted them both so they were turned away. “Don’t draw their attention.”  
  
“Not afraid of a few Templars, are you, Blondie?” Varric asked. Despite his teasing, his brow was creased with worry.  
  
“Of course not.” Not his most convincing lie.  
  
Even without looking at the Templars, Fenris could hear the clank of their armor, the rustle of their chainmail, and could tell they were coming closer. Next to him, Anders was taut as a bowstring.  
  
“A lovely day, isn’t it, Messeres?” the unfamiliar Templar asked as they drew near. Fenris eyed the bald man’s shark-like smile. He was looking right at Anders, and Fenris couldn’t tell if the man was using his eyes to undress him or to flay him. Cold washed over him as he remembered Danarius wearing a similar look.  
  
“It would be, if you weren’t blocking the sun, Alrik,” Anders grated.  
  
“ _Ser_ Alrik,” the Templar admonished, gaze turning blade-sharp.  
  
Fenris didn’t know when he had stepped between the two. “How can we be of assistance, Ser Templar?” he asked politely even as he stared him down. Hawke and Hubert had fallen silent. Behind him, Anders made a rude noise.  
  
“Come along, Ser Alrik,” Thrask intervened, clapping a hand on Alrik’s shoulder. He offered Hawke an apologetic look. “We are late.”  
  
“Yes, we are,” Alrik sighed. With a lingering look at Anders, he added, “Pity. Perhaps another time.”  
  
Fenris watched the pair go, eyes narrowed, and kept on watching until they were out of sight. When he turned back to his friends, it was to see Hawke hovering around Anders, who had his eyes screwed shut and head bowed, skin splintering with blue cracks that flickered and died. When Anders finally opened his eyes, Fenris saw with relief that they were still gold.  
  
“Alright?” Hawke asked.  
  
“Yes. Apologies.” Sighing, Anders added, “Justice isn’t too fond of Ser Alrik.”  
  
“Nor am I,” Hawke countered, voice hard. He brightened the next moment. “So back to the Bone Pit?”  
  
Fenris, Anders, and Varric groaned.

 

They returned to Kirkwall late that evening, and Fenris was grateful they didn’t have to camp out in the wilderness this time. He still had bouts of insomnia, times when he didn’t trust himself in the Fade, and the last thing he wanted was another tired, fire-lit argument with Anders when they woke from their respective nightmares.  
  
Fenris knew he needed rest, so he gathered a trio of wine bottles from the cellar and dusted them off, planning to get passed-out drunk while he had the luxury. Ensconced in a cushioned chair, Fenris was well on his way to a pleasant buzz when he heard a knock on his door.  
  
The elf growled around the lip of his second bottle. He technically didn’t live in this mansion, didn’t exist—a ghost in more ways than one—so there really was no reason for him to answer the door, no matter how incessant the knocking.  
  
Except that he knew that knock, and he knew from experience that it was best to intercept the hand and body attached to it before they let themselves in anyway. Pushing to his feet, Fenris wrenched the door open, affixing his staunchest scowl.  
  
“Mage.”  
  
“Elf.” The mage stood in his doorway, hugging himself against the cold. Anders’ smile was much too cheery for this time of night. Or ever. But the deeper Fenris scowled, the wider that smile grew. “Well, aren’t we a ray of sunshine, as always. Into the bottle, already? I’m surprised you had time to close the door first.”  
  
“What do you want, mage?” he grated out. Anders’ stare had a way of getting under his skin and making him _itch_. He hated it and wanted it gone.  
  
Anders sighed and shook his head, likely unimpressed with the elf’s manners, but Fenris didn’t care. Anders drew a flask out of a pouch at his hip, like the ones used for his lyrium potions. Fenris bristled, markings starting to glow, until Anders explained, “Sleeping draught. I know you’re still not sleeping well.”  
  
He thrust the bottle into Fenris’ hand, and Fenris was too distracted by the brush of fingers against his palm to argue. He tensed to run and wondered why that simple touch would set off his ‘fight or flight’ instincts. Maybe because those callused fingers were _mage’s_ fingers, and the last time a mage had touched him in a friendly manner, _well_.  
  
“Don’t give me that look,” Anders went on. Fenris blinked. He was making a look? “You have a marvelous way of hiding your tired kind of crankiness by acting cranky _all_ the time, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t notice. Healer senses.” Anders waggled his fingers helpfully. “Anyway, just try it. If it works, I’ll make you a batch.”  
  
Fenris considered the potion in his hand and the insufferable smile on the mage’s lips before he shut the door in Anders’ face.  
  
“You’re welcome!” Anders shouted through the door. Despite himself, Fenris smiled, warmed by more than the wine.

 

As he made his way into Darktown, Anders shook his head. The elf was stubborn, obnoxiously so, and Anders wondered if he should have just dumped that potion into the fool’s stew after all. Hawke wouldn’t have enjoyed carrying a snoring elf back to Kirkwall, but at least Fenris would look less haggard in the morning.  
  
That would be his Plan B, he decided. For now, he would head back to the clinic and clear up the mess, maybe have a hot meal (well, lukewarm really, if he was lucky) and a bath and then go to bed.  
  
Anders expected to find his clinic in the sorry state he’d left it, but he stilled in the doorway. The cots had been turned back over (uncapsized? Was that a word?) and straightened, their spare pillows and blankets patched and mended. Anders’ desk had been set to rights as well, his manifesto stacked neatly. Even the floor had been scrubbed.  
  
Maker, but he could kiss that woman. “Thank you, Lirene,” he breathed to the empty room as he set down his staff.  
  
The clinic wasn’t empty for long, however. Once the locals found out the healer was back, Anders had an influx of patients. Thoughts of a meal or a bath were pushed aside as Anders healed the broken jaw of a battered woman and the puncture wound of a guardsman. Thoughts of bed and sleep went the same way as Anders fought for hours to fix a boy’s ruptured appendix.  
  
By the time that operation was finished, Anders was strung-out. He stumbled onto a cot and bid the relieved mother and child a goodnight with a tired smile, then took a moment to breathe, head bowed between his legs and arms limp at his sides.  
  
When he finally raised his head, it was to find the clinic less empty than he’d realized.  
  
“S-ser Alrik?” he gasped, scrambling to his feet and scraping together his last reserves of mana. Even Justice moved sluggishly in the back of his mind.  
  
“Good evening, Anders,” the Templar said, his smile anything but friendly. “Or good morning, truly. ‘Tis nearly daybreak, you know.” He was dressed in simple leathers instead of his Templar armor, for once, or no doubt someone would have warned Anders, or— “That’s quite the herb collection you have, to heal a boy’s torn organs.” Behind Alrik, his three lackeys from the other night stood guard, one of them shutting and bolting the door. The tableau was familiar, and Anders remembered those awful nights in the Circle when solitary confinement hadn’t been so solitary.  
  
Anders grit his teeth. “Why are you here?” he growled, though he already knew.  
  
Alrik tutted as he approached, his steps unhurried. “What, no healing for a Templar?” he asked. “Perhaps I skinned my knee or singed my fingers. It’s tough work, after all, corralling mages.” As he neared, he loomed over Anders, hemming him in against the cot. Heart hammering in his ears, Anders reached for magic that didn’t respond. “That last one was especially feisty—the runaway, Lana, was it? She told me _all_ about you, and when I turned her Tranquil—”  
  
“You—!”  
  
Before his fist could connect, Anders was thrown into the wall, jarring his skull and knocking the breath from his lungs. A hand pinned him there by the throat.  
  
“Knew her, did you?” Alrik purred in the mage’s ear. Anders growled and kicked out, aiming for his groin, but the Templar pulled him forward and slammed him back again. Anders’ skull rang like a bell. “Did she offer you that tight body of hers in exchange for a way out?”  
  
Anders felt ill. “You are revolting,” he growled. “Is that why you keep turning mages tranquil, hmm? Because no woman would touch you otherwise?”  
  
A third _slam_ , and Anders tasted bile.

“Really, now, Anders,” Alrik continued, a smirk in his voice. “You and I both know I don’t need to make you Tranquil to have you begging for me. But I could. So perhaps you should behave, hmm?”  
  
No. No no no. “You wouldn’t dare,” Anders choked, dizzy from lack of air. “Hawke would –”  
  
“Hawke isn’t here, pretty.”  
  
Anders squeezed his eyes shut. Hawke would be at home in his mansion, almost directly above them, blessedly oblivious. Maybe he was reading in his chair again or curled up beside Merrill. The door to his cellars was mere feet away, and if the Templars knew Hawke had been helping him, had smuggled a few mages through that cellar—  
  
“Don’t… don’t make me Tranquil.”  
  
Anders wouldn’t call it begging, but the way the Templars _laughed_ said that was exactly what it sounded like. Anders knew what it was like to be violated physically and knew he could endure it, but he couldn’t bear to lose his magic, his rage, his love for Hawke—  
  
As Anders was shoved face-down onto his desk, Justice raged from a distance, his shouts coming to Anders as though through glass. Anders clutched at the lose pages of his manifesto, crumpling and smearing the words as he grit his teeth and endured.  
  
 _Before this is over_ , he vowed, _I will kill this man._  
  
Justice agreed, and it was enough to make Anders smile before pain splintered his consciousness.

 

“Mage, wake up.”  
  
A hand bled warmth into Anders’ shoulder as it shook him. The stone was cold under his bare skin, and Anders couldn’t feel the lower half of his body.  
  
But Justice was still there. His _magic_ was still there. Anders could have wept with relief.  
  
“Mage?”  
  
“Hnn. Hawke?”  
  
“ _Anders_.”  
  
The mage’s eyelids fluttered as he fought to keep them open. The room wasn’t cooperating. Everything was blurry and spinning, and for a moment, Anders wondered if he had stumbled back into the Fade. A hand cupped the back of his head and steadied it, brushing over a spot that felt hot and painful and made Anders whimper.  
  
“Sorry.” The hand adjusted its grip, and Anders sagged. “Are you alright?”  
  
“Ow.” He tried again to focus on who was talking, squinting up at the blur of color. “Fenris?” The lines of the elf’s face doubled and blurred, but he was unmistakable.  
  
And _glowing._  
  
Anders huffed and pushed himself to sit, pulling away from Fenris’ hand and leaning back against his desk. He’d been lying on a few pages of his manifesto, and they clung to him, smearing ink along his skin as he brushed them aside. Tilting his chin up and ignoring his nakedness, Anders said, “You just missed the Templars.” His words slurred and stuttered, but he pressed on. “If you hurry, y-you can congratulate them on… on a job well-done—”  
  
“ _Congratulate_? I will _murder_ them!” Fenris roared, his markings turning blindingly bright. “I will tear off their genitals with my bare hands and feed it to them!” Squinting, Anders saw that the elf had his fists clenched, that he looked agitated, wild, and Anders was reminded of the Fenris who’d barged in the night he’d stayed at Hawke’s.  
  
“You’re…? Oh.”  
  
The elf kept glaring at the door and tensing like he wanted to give chase.  
  
Anders gripped his arm. “They’re long gone by now,” he said. “Killing Templars will… will only make things worse.” His voice caught in the middle of his sentence as he shifted, cringing and curling around his stomach.  
  
Anders knew he was in bad shape. Some of his mana had returned, but casting with a concussion was a Very Bad Idea. With the room spinning, the floor seemed like a good idea again, and the mage curled into a fetal ball, gasping out shallow, shivery breaths.  
  
Bruised ribs, his healer training supplied. Concussion. Likely some internal bleeding and… tearing.

Fenris’ rage softened to concern, and Anders realized he was still holding the elf’s arm in a death grip. Without moving from Anders’ side, Fenris grabbed a blanket from the nearest cot and dragged it over Anders’ curled body.  
  
“You hate me,” Anders felt compelled to remind him.  
  
“Don’t be foolish, mage.” The tone _sounded_ like Fenris, but his hand, free of its gauntlet, was warm and gentle as it brushed back Anders’ hair, cupped his cheek. “It’s not safe for you here,” the elf murmured. “Or at Hawke’s. Three apostates in one building is asking for trouble.”  
  
Anders hummed, his eyelids slipping closed. He wondered if Lirene would clean up the mess again, poor woman.  
  
“Mage.”  
  
A hand shook his shoulder again.  
  
“Hnn?” He was just starting to doze.  
  
“Can you heal yourself?”  
  
Anders gave a barely-perceptible shake of his head.  
  
“ _Vanhedis_. And they took all your poultices.”  
  
They did? Anders decided he’d be properly enraged over that when he was less tired.  
  
“Can you walk?” Fenris asked.  
  
“I can and have. Many times.” His voice sounded tired and slurred, but the quip was unmistakable.  
  
Fenris huffed and brushed Anders’ hair back from his face again. That simple touch should not have felt so lovely.  
  
“Then prove it. Or shall I carry you like a damsel?”  
  
Wincing, Anders pushed himself up, first to a kneel, as Fenris guided him with a hand under his arm. “There’s a part of me that wants to say ‘yes’, to serve you right.” Fenris pulled him to his feet, wrapping the blanket tightly about him before throwing an arm over his shoulder and sliding an arm around Anders’ waist. Anders ended up leaning more on Fenris than off.  
  
“There’s a part of me that would want to drop you, to serve _you_ right.”  
  
Anders’ chuckle was little more than a gust of air. Any more would have had his damaged ribs singing.  
  
He didn’t pay attention to where they were going. All he knew was that each step was a world of agony between his legs. They were still in Darktown when his knees buckled and Fenris scooped him up after all.  
  
“Damsel it is,” Fenris teased him gently. Then, more quietly: “Stay with me, mage.”  
  
Cradled in Fenris’ arms, Anders slipped into the Fade. It was the only way he could explain the brush of Fenris’ lips against his forehead.


	4. Topple

“ _Vanhedis,_ Hawke!” Fenris groaned. “Really?”  
  
Hawke paused mid-scrub to wipe away a bead of sweat. “We’ve been over this, Fenris,” he sighed. “This place is filthy and unsafe for someone of fragile health. If you’re going to keep Anders here, _I_ am going to clean.” Fingers spread wide, Hawke summoned a jet of water, rinsing off the ruined tiles. “Plus I’ve been wanting to clear out those rotting bodies for months,” he added under his breath.  
  
Fenris folded his arms across his chest and watched Hawke, shaking his head. “Don’t you have a maid for this sort of thing?”  
  
“I like to clean. It calms me.” Fenris quirked an eyebrow. Without looking up, Hawke said, “I can feel you judging me. Stop it.”  
  
“I am always judging you. You ask the impossible.”  
  
Hawke huffed and waved him away.  
  
If Fenris were honest, he’d admit the place looked (and smelt) better. When it had just been him, Fenris hadn’t cared about the state of the place, so long as there was a roof overhead and wine in the cellar. Anders had scolded him for it many times, and for some reason that had made Fenris want to keep it as it was all the more.  
  
In the next room, Merrill was busy disposing of cobwebs.  
  
“You do realize that my reason for bringing him here was to _avoid_ having three apostates in one place?” Fenris was tactful enough not to mention blood magic. This time.  
  
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” Merrill replied in her trilling accent. “Anyone who knows you’re here knows you can’t stand Anders. What a fabulous idea, by the way! This is the safest place for him, truly. In Kirkwall, anyway. Well, except for maybe some of the abandoned sewers, but they smell. That wouldn’t be good for an open injury would it, and think of all the _rats_ , though if we got Anders a cat like he’s been wanting—I’m rambling again, aren’t I?”  
  
Fenris had already left the room. He was judging them both.  
  
He froze when he spotted the third mage on the stairwell, wrapped in a dressing gown belonging to the previous owner. It was faded and patchy now, its former blue more a dusty gray, but it served its purpose. Anders’ skin was waxen, eyes glassy, and he gripped the banister tightly as he descended. He pondered the step he was on for a while.  
  
“There’s a dead man on the staircase,” he said, matter-of-fact.  
  
Through the doorway, Merrill tutted. “Oh, did we miss one? Hawke! There’s another body!”  
  
In the next room, Hawke cursed. “We certainly were thorough, weren’t we?” he called.  
  
Fenris ignored their inanity and climbed the stairwell until he was standing even with Anders. And the dead body.  
  
“You should not be up, mage.”  
  
Anders huffed, smirking tiredly. It relieved Fenris to see it. He remembered what he’d been like the first time Danarius had—well. It didn’t matter. The mage might not even remember what had happened yet.  
  
“Here I thought _I_ was the healer,” he quipped. “I’m fine. I healed what your poultices missed, so I’m a bit low on mana, but that’s all.”  
  
Fenris squinted at the mage. He didn’t _look_ to be in shock. He pressed his palm to Anders’ forehead, but his temperature had evened out.  
  
Crinkling his nose, Anders swatted at Fenris’ hand. “I said I’m _fine_ ,” he grumbled. “Don’t paw at me.” He made his way down the banister.  
  
Watching him, Fenris opened his mouth to say something, only to keep silent.

“Well, well, if it isn’t everyone’s favorite Spirit Healer?” Hawke declaimed, appearing in the doorway. He was wiping his hands on a dirty towel. “I suppose you’ve looked worse.” He smiled and teased as he always did, but there was a tightness in his smile, uncertainty in his eyes. He clearly didn’t know how to handle this.

“My worst is still better than most,” Anders replied easily. Fenris followed him down the stairs, a silent, pensive shadow. “Are you _cleaning_?”

“How are you feeling?” Merrill asked, abandoning her duty as cobweb combustor to fret over Anders.

Anders waved her aside, smiling tightly at the question. “Like I had a fun night but without any of the fun,” he quipped, making Fenris cringe behind him. How could the fool mage make light of something like this? “Maker, I’m ravenous.”

Merrill and Hawke looked at Fenris expectantly. He stared back until he realized that he was technically the host. “Wait here,” he grumbled before making for the pantry. Maker knew what was in there after all this time.

He returned with some bread and cheese that looked suspiciously fresh. Hawke must have gone shopping before cleaning, like the mother hen he insisted he wasn’t.

What he returned to wasn’t pretty.

“Hawke. No.” Anger made Anders more animated, flushing his pale cheeks with color.

“You’re staying here.”

“I am _not_!”

Hawke folded his arms across his chest, pulling rank in a way that had Anders bristling. “I wasn’t asking,” he said. “Until we take care of Alrik, you are not to return to the clinic or to go to the Gallows, and you’re not to leave here without accompaniment, for the time being. No Templars. Fenris will be a good roommate.”

“Are you _ordering_ me?” Anders growled. “Who needs Templars when I have you?”

“Anders—” Hawke looked stricken.

“And what does _Fenris_ have to say about this?” he plowed on. “Are you ordering him too?”

“ _Fenris_ suggested it,” Fenris answered. He handed the bread and cheese to a startled Merrill and positioned himself between the two men. “And that was all it was. A _suggestion_.” Fenris looked pointedly at Hawke, who ducked his head, shame-faced.

“We just want to make sure you’re alright,” Merrill coaxed.

“Will you all stop fussing?” Anders shouted. “It’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened, for Maker’s sake! Templars are the same everywhere!”

The room fell quiet, the weighted, breathless kind of quiet, and Fenris’ mind skittered to a stop. He knew he was staring, but so were Hawke and Merrill. Anders closed his eyes, stricken, as though only just realizing what he’d admitted.

“I… I think I’d like to be alone.”

“Anders,” Merrill called, but the healer had walked into the nearest study and slammed the door. Merrill’s eyes were large and wet with unshed tears. “Oh, _lethallin_.”

Fenris couldn’t breathe. Everything Anders had said, about the Circles, the Templars… and Fenris had assumed it was all the whining of the privileged.

Without thinking, he made for that door.

“Fenris,” Hawke called, “he said—”

“I _know_ what he said!” He shoved the door open and let it shut behind him.

Anders sat by the desk with his head in his hands. He didn’t look up. “Go away, Hawke,” he said. He sounded more tired than petulant.

Padding over on silent feet, Fenris stood over Anders’ bowed head and folded his arms across his chest. Anders blinked, frowning at the bare feet in front of him.

“That’s twice you’ve called me ‘Hawke’.”

Anders looked up, surprise bleeding into wariness. “Fenris?”

As the object of that stare, Fenris’ breath caught. He wanted to run, to snarl something. Anything to stop Anders from looking so vulnerable.

But be couldn’t run now. He _had_ to know…

“When you speak of the injustice of Templars,” Fenris said, “this is what you mean?”

_Has it truly happened so often that you’re this numb to it?_

Anders shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Partly, I suppose,” he murmured. “Really, I’m just glad Alrik didn’t make me Tranquil. By law, he had the right to, after I helped Lana…” He trailed off, lips pursing as though to keep more words from escaping.

“You’re… _glad_?” Fenris didn’t mean for his tone to sound so accusatory, but the glare Anders shot him was weak at best. How awful must Tranquility be that Anders would prefer _this_?

“I’d rather lose my body than my sense of self.”

Fenris scoffed. “What about that demon of yours? Have you not ‘lost yourself’ to him?”

Fenris expected Anders to bristle, to jump to his feet, to say “ _he’s not a demon!_ ” He expected anger and defensiveness. What he got were sagging shoulders and a pained expression.

And Fenris realized he wasn’t helping. “No matter,” he murmured, setting Justice out of the picture, for now. He sat next to Anders on the edge of the desk, letting his bare feet swing. “Perhaps… we are more alike than we realized.” He’d let the mage interpret that how he would.

“You mean…? Danarius? I thought you were ‘just a bodyguard’.”

Fenris stared down at the cracked floor tiles, saying nothing, forcing himself not to think about his former master, the ghost of his touch and the slimy sense of violation. He nearly jumped when Anders slid a hand over his. His skin prickled with the weight of Anders’ stare, and he tensed but didn’t pull away.

“You’re the one who found me, weren’t you? I remember… bits and pieces.”

Fenris swallowed. He remembered the panic he’d felt, finding the mage on the floor, half-dead in a pool of blood and filth. That panic had stayed with him, a band around his chest, when the mage had collapsed against him. It had stayed with him when Fenris had carried the mage through backstreets into Hightown, when he hadn’t stirred and the mage’s skin had started to burn with fever. It was still there even after Fenris used all his poultices and sent for Hawke with desperate and angry tears in his eyes.

He didn’t tell the mage that he’d sat vigil at his bedside.

“I… wanted to thank you for the sleeping draught,” he said, voice scratchy. “It was mid-morning, but I found the clinic door locked. I thought you might be… _with_ someone again, but it was much too quiet for that.”

That earned him a groaning laugh from Anders.

“When I knocked and you didn’t swear at me, I knew something had to be wrong.”

The expression Anders turned to Fenris was soft but unreadable, too many emotions to parse.

“What?” Fenris asked. He didn’t know when he had turned over his hand to press them palm to palm.

“I was just…” Anders pulled his hand away and ran it through his hair. The air felt cold in Fenris’ empty hand. “If we’ve had similar… _experiences_ , I do not understand how you can have such hate for my cause.”

“ _Vanhedis_ , mage,” Fenris groaned. “Must you bring politics into everything?” At Anders’ flat look, Fenris shook his head and, keeping a rein on his temper, tried another tact: “Let’s say that, in the Imperium, Templars are misused the way mages here are misused. How would you feel if I championed _their_ rights after what the Templars here did to you?”

“I… that’s not the same. They aren’t the same Templars who—”

“But you grouped them all together not ten minutes ago. ‘Templars are the same everywhere’, you said.”

Anders clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenching. For a moment, Fenris feared Justice would make an appearance.

“They may not be the same Templars, but you’re afraid they could become like them.”

“I am not a magister, Fenris,” Anders replied, voice soft, _hurt_.

“Yet you only speak about the oppression of mages.”

Anders’ brow furrowed. “No, I… I am against oppression of _any_ one. I speak out about mages because I _am_ a mage and better understand what mages need.”

Fenris harrumphed. He wished he could trust this mage, wished he could trust the two outside the door, _but_ —

“But mage or not, I would defend the rights of a slave over a magister,” Anders said. He sounded firm in this conviction. “You must know that. I don’t want blood magic or demons or the Imperium any more than you do. I just want everyone to have the same basic rights, the chance to _choose_ what to do with their lives, no matter the race or… or magical proclivities.”

Fenris sighed and bowed his head. He wanted so desperately to believe that and to believe that mages weren’t the dangerous monsters he’d been raised to fear. “That is… fair, in theory. But sometimes I fear you go too far.”

“No one should suffer the injustices we have, Fenris.”

“We”. One word should not have made him ache so.

Their eyes met, and something eased in the air between them. Anders smiled almost shyly up at him.

“Hey, Fenris?”

“Mage?”

“I’m still hungry.”

 

There was shouting, muffled by heavy blankets and a heavier door. Anders groaned and burrowed deeper into the sheets.

He’d been a good little mage and only tried to escape once so far (Fenris had found him dangling from a window and hauled him back by the scruff of his neck. Anders certainly hadn’t been turned on by how easily the elf had manhandled him, nope), and he didn’t deserve this. He almost never got to sleep in a bed this soft, and he planned to enjoy it as much as possible, thank you, _Hawke_.

And Aveline. What _were_ they arguing about? Did she try to propose to Donnic by sending a goat to his mother again?

Ugh. He didn’t care. Just go away.

They did the opposite. They barged into his borrowed room.

Anders promptly shut his eyes and started to snore.

“Oh please,” Hawke huffed. “I know you’re awake, Anders. That’s your fake snore.”

“Is not,” Anders grumbled, eyes still shut. “And this is me talking in my sleep, also not fake.”

Someone tore away his blanket. “Maker’s _piss_ , Aveline,” he groaned, sitting up sullenly and snatching back his blanket.

“Nice smalls,” Hawke commented.

That damned man always knew had to defuse him. Well, _almost_ always. Anders sent him a wink. “It’s a nice bed, too. You should try it.”

Hawke smirked.

“You, serrah, have some explaining to do,” Aveline said, cutting in.

Anders’ smile faded. What had he done this time? “About my smalls?” he quipped. “What can I say? I have good taste.”

“This is serious, Anders!” she scolded. The mage tried to look recalcitrant. “Three of the men who assaulted you were murdered last night!”

That wiped all humor from Anders’ mind. “Good riddance,” he said, “but what does that have to do with me?”

“An eye-witness saw it happen,” Aveline said, expression grim. “Said the killer used magic and was glowing blue.”

Cold shivered down Anders’ spine. He choked. They couldn’t possible think—?

He’d been having black-outs more and more, true, but it couldn’t be.

No. No, Justice would never do that to him. But Anders was afraid to check, afraid to tap into that side of him, of _them_.

“I wasn’t— I mean—”

Maker, the air was thin in here.

Aveline narrowed her eyes and stared him down, arms crossed. Hawke stood behind her, clearly uncomfortable.

“Don’t give me that look,” Anders snapped, fighting back panic. “They deserved whatever they got, but _I_ didn’t do this!”

The following silence was uncomfortable. Much as Anders hated it, he knew they were thinking the same thing.

“It’s not you we’re worried about,” Hawke said, voice soft.

“Clearly you are!” Anders snapped. He shouldn’t blame them, but the anger (fear?) he felt was visceral. “Justice wouldn’t— he wouldn’t just take over like that!”

He wasn’t even convincing himself, and he hated the furtive looks Aveline and Hawke exchanged.

“Whatever be the case,” Hawke sighed. “What happens now? You won’t arrest Anders, surely?”

Anders’ head snapped up at that, and he gave Aveline a _look_ that said no prison of hers could hold him. She scowled in reply.

“Of course not,” she answered. “I’d rather those bastards had paid for their crimes _lawfully_ , but the guard has no jurisdiction over Templars, and Meredith certainly wasn’t going to investigate them.” She shrugged, her armor rustling. “And this is still a Templar matter. Meredith suspects a mage was involved but hasn’t fingered you yet, thankfully.”

Anders blew out a breath and closed his eyes.

“ _My_ concern, however, is Justice.”

“What about him?” Anders asked warily.

“I doubt he’s done. Ser Alrik is still alive, after all.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Anders felt sick.


	5. Torque

Anders didn’t try to escape after that. He hardly even left his room. Well, whoever’s room this used to be. He spent his time actively _not_ talking to Justice, the way one avoids tonguing at a sore tooth. It was maddening in a way he couldn’t explain.  
  
Hawke said he would take care of Alrik before Justice did, but there had been uncertainty under his declamation. He was a mage too, after all, and Alrik was a Templar surrounded by other Templars.   
  
It was _dangerous_ , and Anders told him not to. He was not worth such a risk, was not worth the world losing someone like Hawke.  
  
An image of Hawke, dead-eyed and branded like Karl, plagued his dreams that night. He awakened to a pillow soaked with tears, tears that continued to fall long after he was awake.   
  
Worry knotted his stomach. Frustration smashed the vase in the corner.  
  
Okay, his _magic_ smashed the vase. Oh well. At least it had made a satisfying _crash._  
  
He wasn’t surprised when his door slammed open. Fenris stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed, alert in contrast to his sleep-mussed hair, but Anders was rather more distracted by the elf’s state of undress.  
  
“What was that?” he asked, voice still gravelly from sleep in a way Anders could feel in his bones. He’d always found that voice sinful when it wasn’t spouting inanities.  
  
“Evening, Fenris,” Anders chirped. “Sorry about the noise. I decided the vase didn’t go with the décor.”  
  
Fenris glanced at the vase’s shattered pieces, then quirked an eyebrow at the mage. Anders hated the way he looked at him like that, like he could see _through_ him with those ridiculously large eyes. Bastard. “Do you plan on redecorating anything else tonight?”  
  
“Who knows? Do you have any more wine bottles to throw at the wall?”  
  
If Anders’ smile was starting to grow brittle, _well_. It’s been a stressful week.  
  
“Something troubles you.”  
  
He winced, wishing Fenris would just leave. When Anders didn’t answer, the elf sighed and approached, leaning his hip against the bedpost. Anders wanted to drive the elf away, but this was rare, a moment of concern and regard from Fenris. The elf had been acting differently, now that he thought about it, ever since they’d bickered about demons that night by the campfire, and even more since…  
  
“Alrik. I’m thinking of going after him.” Anders didn’t realize he’d decided this until he said it. “He needs to be _gone_ , but I don’t want him hurting Hawke. He’s a mage too, and I…” Anders ran a hand through his hair, wondering why he was saying this. “I don’t want anyone else hurt because of me.”  
  
Fenris nodded, clearly less surprised than Anders by this admission. “He can nullify your magic. Would you like me to help you?”  
  
Anders blinked up at him, startled. “Would—? You would do that?” he asked. “Wait, no. _No_. I can’t risk… I-If Justice comes out again—”  
  
“Again?” Fenris’ stare turned hard, and Anders cringed.  
  
“I… apparently Alrik’s _friends_ were killed the other night,” he explained. “By someone… someone who _glowed_ , they said.”  
  
He closed his eyes, waited for Fenris to revert to type, to rail against him and his demon.  
  
“And you… thought that was Justice? That he had taken over without your consent?”  
  
Why did Fenris seem so _surprised_?  
  
“Does Justice do that often?” Again, the suddenly hard tone.  
  
Anders shook his head emphatically. Fenris didn’t need to know about the black-outs. “No! Not… not that I know of, anyway. But I don’t remember harming those men, and that frightens me.”  
  
Fenris rubbed at his forehead, lips pursed. Anders _really_ didn’t need him judging him right now.  
  
“Anders.” Fenris looked at him, full in the eye. Anders daren’t blink. “Did it not occur to you that you know someone _else_ who—” He made a face. “—‘glows’?”

Anders looked at the elf, at the lyrium lining his skin, and revelation hit him as surely as he’d hit that vase.  
  
“ _You_?”  
  
“Me.”  
  
“But… why?”  
  
Fenris looked at him as though the answer should be obvious. His tattoos glowed in the half-dark. “Because they deserved it,” he said. “And to make Alrik nervous.”  
  
Anders let out a shaky breath. “And… Alrik?”  
  
Fenris looked at him grimly. “Up to you. I will help you if you like, but he is yours to kill.”  
  
Anders didn’t know whether to be alarmed or touched by that. With a shaky laugh, he said, “I’m beginning to think you don’t hate me half as much as you pretend to.”  
  
Fenris harrumphed. “Don’t be foolish.”  
  
Anders’ smile quirked, turning wry. He shouldn’t be surprised by that reply, he supposed, even if he was a bit disappointed.  
  
“I never truly _hated_ you.”  
  
Okay, now _that_ reply surprised him. Something else Fenris once said came back to him then, something about Hawke: “ _Fasta vass, mage, this was never about_ him.”  
  
Surely, Fenris hadn’t meant—  
  
“Oh,” he breathed. He hadn’t understood at the time, hadn’t read anything into it.  
  
Maker, but this was _Fenris_. He _still_ shouldn’t read anything into it, right?  
  
“If that is true, then why do you like hurting me?” Anders asked, shaking himself.   
  
Fenris blinked, brows furrowing. “I don’t… I don’t like _hurting_ you. I like…” Fenris’ touch was gentle, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind Anders’ ear, but the mage still flinched at the suddenness of it. “I like getting under your skin.” Fenris jerked his hand away as though only just realizing he’d touched Anders, his eyes wide and startled.  
  
Okay, perhaps he _should_ read things into this. Lots of things.  
  
Anders was reminded of his first crush, a scraggly boy who used to pull his hair and splash him with mud just to get and keep his attention. The comparison startled a laugh out of the mage, and Fenris drew back, all vulnerability leaving his expression. He looked… insulted, yes, but unsure.  
  
In some ways, Fenris was approaching this as a child would, and he wondered then, taken aback, if that was because Fenris was still innocent in some things, despite what Danarius had done to him. His smile softening, he stood up and leaned into the space Fenris had just vacated. The elf tensed. Anders half expected him to bolt, but he stayed, his gaze falling to Anders’ lips.  
  
“You know, there are other ways to get my attention, Fenris,” he said, dropping his voice to a lower, huskier register.  
  
Anders could see Fenris’ throat muscles working around a gulp, and he smiled.  
  
“So… Alrik?” Fenris breathed, voice choked, as he took a step back.  
  
Anders nodded, letting him retreat for the moment. “Alrik,” he agreed. “Tomorrow.”

 

“A… mage underground?”   
  
Fenris was many things, but at this moment, happy was not one of them. He understood why Anders (and _Hawke_ , the bastard) had kept this a secret from him, but that didn’t negate his sense of betrayal.  
  
He stood in the doorway of his mansion’s (now spotless) foyer, fully armed and armored, as Anders wrung his hands in front of him.  
  
The mage nodded, throwing in the sheepish smile and puppy eyes that always worked on Hawke. And damned if they weren’t effective on Fenris too, but he wasn’t about to let the mage know that.  
  
“Just… a little one?” he said, looking through his lashes at the elf.  
  
Fenris rolled his eyes. “ _Fasta vass_ ,” he muttered, running gauntleted fingers through his hair. A month ago, Fenris would have railed against helping mages escape Templar rule, but today and after what had happened to Anders? Fenris still wasn’t happy, but he _was_ biddable.  
  
The Puppy Eyes watched him, slowly starting to look worried.  
  
“You are pushing your luck, mage,” Fenris growled, pointing a finger at Anders’ chest. “After tonight, I will have no part in such a thing!”  
  
“But tonight you will?”   
  
“Just to lure out Alrik,” Fenris said. Anders looked relieved.  
  
“I… thank you. I know this must not be easy for you.” Anders patted his arm, his touch lingering longer than necessary. Having a mage in such close proximity had Fenris tensing on instinct, but he forced himself not to pull away.  
  
“We should prepare then, if we hope to set up this trap of yours by nightfall.”  
  
Anders smiled sweetly. “Already done.”  
  
“Already… what?”  
  
“I sent word to Lirene, this afternoon.”  
  
Fenris wasn’t going to ask how Anders managed to do this without his knowledge. He narrowed his eyes, which prompted Anders to widen his innocently. “I only just agreed to this,” he growled. “You knew I would agree?” Anders shifted his weight guiltily. “No… you were going to go alone if I didn’t.”  
  
Scowling, Fenris was tempted to let him do just that. Anders winced.  
  
“It was the only plan I had, and I hoped you would help me,” Anders replied. “And you are. So what’s the problem?”  
  
Fenris didn’t know what to say to that. Anders had a track record of looking out for himself first, so this shouldn’t have surprised him, let alone _bothered_ him.  
  
“There’s no problem,” he said with only a hint of bitterness. “I have to help Hawke run a few errands, but I’ll be back by tonight. We’ll meet here. What you do with your time between now and then is your business.”  
  
He caught a glimpse of Anders’ surprised expression before he slammed the door behind him.

 

Fenris nursed his anger as he followed Hawke and Varric to the Keep to meet with Aveline. The mage had made it clear on multiple occasions that he didn’t think of Fenris as a friend, that he wasn’t someone he’d trust unless he had to. And that was fine. Really. Fenris wouldn’t trust him either.  
  
But Fenris found himself glaring at Hawke’s back as they walked. Anders trusted _him_ , wanted _him_ —  
  
Wait. Since when did _that_ matter?  
  
“You’re looking extra broody today,” Varric said, leaning in as Hawke knocked on Aveline’s door. “Everything alright?”  
  
“Why shouldn’t it be?”   
  
Varric huffed. “Because you’re rooming with the anti-you?” When Fenris bristled, he asked archly, “Lovers’ spat?”  
  
“We are not—!”  
  
Varric’s brows shot up, but Aveline wrenched the door open before Fenris finished.  
  
“Not a good time, Hawke,” she said, voice tight. “Come back later.”  
  
“No need, Captain,” a voice called out behind her. “I was just leaving. Greetings, Messere Hawke.”  
  
Grimacing, Aveline stepped aside as Ser Alrik appeared in the doorway beside her. He smiled at the group, and images of Anders bleeding on his clinic floor flashed through Fenris’ mind. Fenris’ gauntlets creaked as he clenched his fists.  
  
“I’m certain you’ve heard of the recent murders?” Alrik asked. “The good captain and I were just discussing them. Three fine, upstanding young men killed in cold blood.” He clucked his tongue.  
  
“Oh, I’m sure justice will be paid,” Hawke replied, and Fenris smirked.  
  
“How is your friend, by the way?” Alrik asked, brows upturned in false concern. “The herbalist, was it? I heard his clinic was attacked and he’s disappeared.”  
  
The only response he received was chilly silence. Fenris wasn’t the only one clenching his fists.  
  
“A shame he isn’t with you,” he added sweetly. “Lately, I find myself in the need of an herbalist’s _services_ , and I hear your friend is especially good with his hands—”  
  
Snarling, Fenris punched him in the nose, feeling the satisfying crunch of cartilage. Alrik’s head whipped back, and blood oozed from his nostrils.  
  
“Perhaps you should see an ‘herbalist’ about that,” Fenris growled. It took all his force of will to keep from activating his markings, from reaching right into that man’s _skull_.  
  
Beside him, Hawke made a strangled noise while Varric fought not to laugh.   
  
“ _Fenris_ ,” Aveline hissed, grabbing his arm.  
  
“How… how _dare_ you!” With his fingers pinching his bleeding nose, Alrik's roar came out nasally and unintimidating.  
  
“Apologies, Serrah,” Hawke said. “That’s just how he says hello.”  
  
Fenris’ grin was all teeth.  
  
“Hawke, you’re not helping,” Aveline snapped. “My apologies, Ser Alrik. I’ll see to this.”   
  
She frog-marched Fenris into her office, Hawke and Varric trailing along before she slammed the door. Once out of sight, Aveline let go of Fenris and rounded on him.  
  
“Are you insane? The last thing we need is more Templar attention!”  
  
“Oh, come off it, Aveline,” Varric countered, waving his hand. “You should be thanking him for his restraint.”  
  
“I could have ripped out his heart just as easily, if I wanted to,” Fenris growled, crossing his arms. “And I _wanted_ to.”  
  
Aveline turned helplessly to Hawke, who shrugged. “He’s not wrong.”  
  
Fenris glared at the door, at the pustule of a Templar who he vowed would have more than a broken nose by the end of the night.


	6. Trap

This was a first for Anders, hoping the Templars were after him. Melding with Justice hadn’t impaired his appreciation for irony, at least.  
  
The elf was silent—brooding, he suspected—while Anders filled the sewers with inane (and possibly nervous) chatter. He’d never liked dark, enclosed spaces, but at least Fenris’s markings made him an elf-shaped lantern, making the sewers less dark, if still enclosed. This observation might have factored into the inane chatter, but Fenris found it far less interesting.  
  
As for Fenris, Anders was still backtracking, still rewriting his understanding of the prickly elf. Maker, but they were both hard-headed idiot, weren’t they?  
  
Anders found himself eyeing Fenris as they walked. He’d always been striking, striking enough to catch Hawke’s attention, and Anders had hated that until now. Hawke wasn’t his, Anders knew, realized. Hawke had never _been_ his, as much as it still hurt to admit. But Fenris?   
  
What was he going to do with Fenris?  
  
He wondered what those tattoos looked like under all that leather…  
  
Justice rumbled at him to stop thinking about such things. Spoilsport.  
  
As they approached the Circle and the hidden tunnel from its basement, Anders fell quiet. Fenris noticed, judging by the appraising looks the elf was pretending not to give him. Justice was white noise in the back of his head, growing steadily louder as they approached.  
  
Men’s laughter and the scrape of plate-mail told Anders that their trap had caught at least some Templar-shaped fish. They peeked around the corner to see a mage girl trembling in front of a quartet of Templars, their armor seeming to bend and warp in the flickering torchlight. The leader’s head was bald and helmet-free.  
  
The lead Templar laughed, and Anders shivered. He pretended not to notice Fenris pressing closer, almost protectively.  
  
Alrik. They’d caught the right fish after all.  
  
“No, please, I haven’t done anything wrong!”   
  
Ah, Ella. She was playing her part well, brave girl. Anders prayed the quaver in her voice was just exceptional acting.  
  
“That’s a lie,” Alrik said, his voice sickly sweet in a way that cut right through Anders. “You know what we do to mages who lie.”  
  
Anders wasn’t sure if the growl in his ear came from Justice or Fenris.  
  
“Please, no! Don’t make me Tranquil! I’ll do anything!”  
  
Acting or not, however, the sight of a mage pleading on her knees in front of a Templar, begging for the same ‘mercy’ Anders had—Anders saw _red_ … and then blue as Justice wrested control.  
  
 _ **“You fiends will never touch a mage again!”**_

 

The air crackled with electricity, making the hair on the back of Fenris’ neck stand on end. Fenris ripped his sword from its sheath, but he mainly stayed out of Justice’s way.   
  
_**“I will have every last Templar for these abuses!”**_   Justice roared. One Templar body jerked, shuddered, and fell, fried from the inside-out. A second visibly crumpled, armor and all, like a piece of paper. The third Templar dropped his sword and made a run for it, but he was frozen solid and smashed into a million pieces.  
  
Alrik watched Justice in Anders’ body, his broken nose still bent oddly, and Fenris would have smiled at the terror in his pale eyes if he wasn’t so terrified himself. When the Templar raised his hand to nullify Anders’ magic, Fenris leapt forward, cutting that hand off at the wrist. Alrik shrieked and clutched the stump of his arm, and Fenris shoved him to his knees at Justice’s mercy.  
  
The spirit turned burning-blue eyes on the kneeling Templar.  
  
“You?”Alrik breathed. “How… What _are_ you?”  
  
Justice loomed over him, and the very air seemed to _tremble_. Fenris took a step back, pulling Ella behind him, his instincts screaming at him to run  
  
 _ **“I am Justice, Templar,”**_   the spirit boomed, _**“and you have earned my wrath!”**_  
  
The man deserved a slow, cruel death, but Justice’s ‘wrath’ was quick and brutally efficient. With a burst of blue light and the sharp smell of ozone, he reached down and crushed Alrik’s bald head with one hand.   
  
Fenris shielded his eyes against the glare, blinking and squinting into the dim light once it had passed. Now that the battle was over, he expected to see Anders, but Justice still seethed, prowling about the small space and twirling Anders’ staff in agitation. Fenris’ instincts were screaming at him to _run **now**_ , but he wasn’t going to leave Anders here, alone with this… this parasite inside of him.  
  
“Calm yourself, mage,” he said, careful to keep his tone firm but soft. Sweat made his sword’s hilt slippery. He patted the air in front of him with his free hand. “It’s over.”  
  
Justice wheeled on him, and Fenris stepped back and away. _**“These fiends! These**_ **animals _! Every one of them will feel Justice’s burn!”_** the spirit roared.  
  
“Get away from me, demon!” Ella shrieked, and Fenris cursed, moving to shield her with his body.  
  
“Don’t provoke him,” he warned her, his eyes trained on Justice.  
  
 _ **“I am no demon!”**_ Justice stalked towards them, sounding indignant. _**“Are you one of them that you would call me such?”**_ The air crackled with gathering energy again, and he lunged at her.  
  
“Get out of here!” Fenris pushed Ella back and away from the attack, and she scrambled to obey. The elf kept himself between the mages, knees bend and sword aimed, diverting the attention of Anders—no, of _Justice_ —and preparing to do what was necessary, even if it would kill him.  
  
 _Vanhedis_ … when had he grown so soft? And over a _mage_?  
  
“I am sorry, my friend,” he murmured, only the barest quaver in his voice. He raised his sword, his markings flaring—  
  
And Justice just… _stopped_.

When Fenris activated his markings like this, usually the mortal world and everything in it sort of… _faded_ around him, making it easy for him to walk through objects, creatures, _people_. And the world _did_ fade, but Anders’ body and electric-blue eyes remained solid, the _only_ thing solid in this between-world he thought only he inhabited.  
  
Fenris held his sword aloft, poised to strike at a moment’s notice, as he and the abomination stared at each other.  
  
In the background, demons of the Fade circled, but they kept their distance for once. He wondered if they could see Justice too, even from across the Veil.   
  
“The Fade,” Justice breathed, aching from longing. It was the most ‘human’ he’d ever sounded to Fenris. “I… can see it. How…?” He looked at Fenris as though seeing him for the first time.  
  
“Justice.”  
  
The abomination blinked, still looking dazed, as Fenris lowered his sword. The elf stayed tensed, however, his sword still ready.  
  
Keeping his stare firm, level, Fenris said, “You just attacked a mage and friend, one who had done you no harm.”  
  
Justice shook his—Anders’—head, more to clear it, it seemed, than to disagree. “She was… she called me… ” His anger crackled bright again, but there was an air of panic underneath it. “I am no demon!”  
  
“Then prove it. Let me talk to Anders.”  
  
Justice frowned and shook his head again. The next time he blinked, his eyes were a honeyed brown, and the energy in the air evaporated.  
  
Anders swayed and staggered back to press a hand to the wall. Fenris stepped back out of the Fade and followed warily.  
  
“He almost— _I_ almost—Oh Maker.”  
  
Fenris caught Anders about the waist when his knees buckled. Staring around him, the mage looked like he was going to be sick.  
  
Fenris finally looked at the carnage around them, the twisted, charred bodies… Alrik’s brains smeared across the ground by Anders’ boot. Fenris’ bare feet were wet with blood, but that was nothing new to him.  
  
“You were right,” Anders choked. “Sweet _Maker_ you were right. I am a monster! I—”  
  
“Breathe, Anders.” There was a time where Fenris would have crowed in victory at this confession. Today he wished he’d never heard it.  
  
The mage closed his eyes, took deliberate deep, shivery breaths. Fenris studied his face, close enough to count each blond eyelash, each bit of stubble, and each of the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and between his brows. He didn’t know why he would want to, but he did, Maker help him.  
  
He waited until Anders’ breathing evened out. “Come,” he murmured. “Let us leave this place.” Keeping his arm tight around Anders’ waist, Fenris steered them out of the tunnel.

 

“Mage?”  
  
“I’m alright.” The lie was transparent, but Fenris politely said nothing. Back in the mansion, in Fenris’ chosen room, the mage was jittery, face drawn and pale, eyes haunted. It was the sort of reaction Fenris had been expecting after Alrik and his underlings had violated him, and it made Fenris wonder.  
  
 _I’d rather lose my body than my sense of self_ , Anders had said at the time, and Fenris realized: Justice taking over so completely, without his consent, was a violation of a different kind—a worse kind by Anders’ standards.  
  
Sensing that the mage didn’t want to be alone, Fenris let him stay as he unstrapped his sword, pulled off his gauntlets, unbuckled his breastplate. Anders hovered strangely close throughout, as though he wanted to crawl inside Fenris’ skin and hide there. Fenris continued to disarm, pretending not to notice or at least not to mind.  
  
Back when he was a slave, with Hadriana and Danarius, Fenris remembered how it had been, how he wouldn’t brook another’s touch for days, how even now his instinct was to pull away and draw a sword.   
  
But Anders had clearly learned a different way to cope. He’d heard enough stories, from Isabela and Anders himself, to know that the mage was not only comfortable with intimacy but was even something of a slut, by Fenris’ standards. Perhaps that was _his_ way, then, like he wanted to replace all the bad touch with good, until touch itself meant little to him.  
  
Stripped to his waist, Fenris reached for the washing basin and a cloth.   
  
“Fenris.”  
  
He looked up and paused, finding the mage even closer than before, eyes still haunted but asking, needing… _something._  
  
As Fenris’ gaze traveled to Anders’ lips, he remembered that night by the fire months ago. They’d talked of temptation and will, and here Anders stood, his presence more a trial than any of the demons’ honeyed words. “I am not weak,” he told himself, voice rough and unsure.   
  
Anders nodded, still standing too close, eyes still begging for something.   
  
Fenris cupped the mage’s cheek. “And neither are you.”  
  
Anders’ restraint seemed to snap, and he surged forward, closing the distance between them. The mage’s lips were soft, chapped, _eager_ against his, making Fenris’ breath hitch. Anders’ stubble rasped against Fenris’ palm as it slid along his cheek to curl around the back of his head, fingers snaring in and mussing Anders’ ridiculous hair. The mage melted into the kiss, and Fenris smiled at the needy noise he made in the back of his throat.  
  
Cupping Anders’ cheeks, Fenris broke the kiss to breathe. Anders coiled his arms around Fenris’ waist and pulled him close, leaning in to feather soft, fleeting kisses against Fenris’ lips, and Fenris let him. When the mage tried to deepen the kiss, the elf pulled back, thumbs smoothing along Anders’ cheekbones.  
  
“Mage,” he rasped, his pulse loud in his throat as he gasped for air, his head spinning.  
  
Anders smiled crookedly, lips swollen and distracting. “That’s starting to sound like a pet name,” he said. His hair was coming free from its tie and hanging in wisps about his face.   
  
_Mage_ , Fenris reminded himself. The very sort who had abused him before but… no. Anders was no magister.  
  
Anders’ finger traced Fenris’ chest, following the bends and curls of his lyrium tattoos, up along the delicate sweep of a collarbone, the underside of his throat. That haunted look was creeping back into his eyes. Fenris brushed the mess of Anders’ hair behind his ear and kept his hand curled along Anders’ cheek. The mage looked up at him, and Fenris hated how fragile he looked.  
  
“It’s alright, Anders. It’s over.” A gravelly voice like his made it hard to sound gentle, but he tried.

Anders _shook_ , and then he seemed to crumble, eyes screwing shut. Fenris sighed and led the mage to sit on the edge of his bed. Sitting next to him, Fenris pulled the mage into his arms, and Anders tucked himself against Fenris’ smaller body, burying his face in the crook of the elf’s shoulder. Fenris pressed his cheek against Anders’. They both smelled of sewer and blood, but under it, there was something softer, sweeter, in the scent of the mage’s hair that he couldn’t quite place.  
  
After a moment, the mage laughed, though it was a small, broken thing.  
  
“What is it?” Fenris asked, sitting back.  
  
“You called me Anders just now. And before too, back in the…” He cleared his throat. “I can’t remember the last time you called me that. _Have_ you ever called me that?”  
  
Fenris huffed. “There are a great deal of things I could call you,” he teased. “What would you prefer?”  
  
“How about: O Dashing One?”  
  
“Only with the greatest of sarcasm.”  
  
“I’ll take what I can get.”  
  
“How gracious of you, O Dashing One.”  
  
That earned a chuckle from Anders, and Fenris smiled.  
  
Fenris still had an arm around Anders, the mage a pleasant warmth at his side, and for the first time in a long time, the elf found he didn’t mind the closeness. He couldn’t avoid thinking about Hawke, about that night and the hurt in the man’s eyes when he’d pulled away. It still made his stomach twist with guilt, but then maybe Hawke wasn’t the mage he’d wanted to be with, after all.  
  
There was still so much about Anders that he hated, that he thought he _should_ hate, but, Maker help him, he never wanted to let him go.   
  
“Fenris,” Anders said in a small, despairing voice, “what am I going to do?”  
  
There was a time when Fenris would have sneered at him, would have said _I told you so_ for letting a demon—a _spirit_ —into his body. But now?  
  
Now he simply said, “You will fight,” and carded his fingers through blond hair.  
  
The mage nodded and rested his head on Fenris’ shoulder. “Is there any more wine in the cellar?” he asked.  
  
“I still have rooms to redecorate, don’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go!


	7. Taste

The morning found them sitting under the dining room table, drunk off their asses. So did Hawke.  
  
“By Andraste’s bounteous bottom, do I even _want_ to know?”  
  
At the sight of Hawke’s face, mage and elf broke into a fit of giggles, shoulders knocking together. Varric didn’t need to bend as far to look under the table.  
  
“I count one, two, three— _twelve_ bottles?” the dwarf said. He let out a low whistle. “You boys _have_ been busy. I’m impressed.”  
  
“Gray Warden,” Anders explained helpfully, and he would have seemed sober if not for the way the finger he held up swayed. “Makes getting drunk _much_ more expensive.” Okay, less sober-sounding past three syllables.  
  
“Oh sweet ancestors, Blondie’s sloshed,” Varric said. “I’ve never seen him sloshed. Have _you_ seen him sloshed?”  
  
“Never seen him sloshed.”  
  
“Sloshed,” was Fenris’ contribution to the conversation. He’d only had a few bottles over the course of the night compared to the mage, but he was no better off. “Hello, Hawke, Varric!”  
  
“Fenris, you’re a _horrible_ host!” Anders slurred, smacking Fenris’ arm. “Invite your guests under the table!”  
  
“Right, yes, guests, come join us under the table.” Fenris waved them in, still clutching a bottle.  
  
Varric did, shrugging and scooching over next to Fenris. Still crouching, Hawke shook his head, exasperated.  
  
“Well, you two seem to be getting along famously,” Varric said, settling in. He eyed where the two of them touched, shoulders pressed together and legs tangled. Fenris and Anders were too drunk to notice his smirk. “Who knew we just had to ply you both with wine and shove you under a table?”  
  
“Fenris, Anders, I’m here to discuss something serious. Varric, don’t encourage the drunkards. _Please_ come out of there.”  
  
“Once you tell the world to hold still, I’d be glad to,” Anders replied.  
  
Hawke rubbed his forehead. “Anders, this is about—oh for the love of—! _Fine_!” Hawke climbed under the table too, sitting cross-legged in front of Fenris and Anders. “Anders.” He looked at the mage, who seemed to sober up a bit at that look. “Ser Alrik’s body was found this morning, in the mage underground tunnels.”  
  
“How interesting,” Anders said dispassionately, stealing Fenris’ bottle to take a swig.  
  
Hawke squinted at the mage, exchanged looks with Varric. “There’s a chance Aveline will be here to string you up by the boots, you know.”  
  
“Why? There’s a lot of angry mages, Hawke. Why’s she assuming it was me?”  
  
A flat look was his answer, but Anders didn’t seem to care. “Anders, did you do this or not?” There was an edge to his voice. Surreptitiously, Varric motioned for Hawke to stay calm.  
  
Anders’ smile was all teeth. “What does it matter? Justice was served.”  
  
“That’s not justice! That’s _vengeance_!”  
  
Fenris smelled smoke, and Hawke had that look like he wanted to throw a fireball at someone.  
  
“And it was _my_ right to take it!” Anders roared back, his eyes flaring blue.  
  
Fenris grabbed his arm, his markings flaring to life. Justice looked at him and calmed almost instantly, blue eyes turning back to amber. Anders relaxed under his touch.  
  
“ _I_ did it,” Fenris said, voice and stare clearer than it had been moments before. “He threatened to do the same thing to a young girl, so I stopped him. If Aveline wants to string me up for that, she can try.”  
  
Anders and Hawke stared at Fenris with matching expressions of surprise. Varric watched them all with wide eyes, body angled to facilitate a quick escape.  
  
“Fenris—?”  
  
“Shut up, mage,” Fenris said around the lip of his bottle, just before he took a swig. Hawke started gathering the empty bottles and placing them neatly on the floor outside for easier disposal.

“Why were you even _in_ those blighted tunnels, then?” he asked.  
  
“My reasons are my own.”  
  
Hawke scoffed. “Is that your excuse for everything?” he asked, and there it was: the bitterness Fenris knew he must still have over That Night.  
  
“I have told you what happened,” Fenris said. “You may stay and drink, or you may get out.”  
  
Hawke gave Varric a helpless look. The dwarf sighed. “I’ll deal with Aveline this time.”  
  
“Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite dwarf?”  
  
“I won’t tell Sandal.”  
  
The four of them shared the last bottle. By some magic, Hawke and Varric said nothing when Anders fell asleep with his head on Fenris’ shoulder, though the raised eyebrows and traded glances said plenty.  
  
  
  
A week later, Hawke ‘deemed it safe’ for Anders to go back to the clinic, and while Anders had scowled at his wording, a look from Fenris had kept him from starting another argument. He’d been genuinely pleased at the thought of something returning to normal.  
  
And wasn’t that strange: an ex-Warden, runaway apostate having something ‘normal’ in his life.  
  
Again, Anders expected to have to roll up his sleeves and clean the clinic, and again, Anders walked in to find it spotless.  
  
“Mage?” Fenris prodded his arm when Anders froze in the doorway. He could _feel_ the elf getting into kill mode, assuming the worst.  
  
“Lirene cleaned my clinic again!” he explained, finally stepping inside. Maker, it even smelled like lavender. “Bless that woman.”  
  
His stomach gave an odd twist when he saw his desk, his manifesto again neatly stacked atop it. He remembered scattering and crumpling those pages, the desk rough and cold under his chest, a hand on the back of his throat—  
  
Justice reminded him that Alrik was dead, but Anders didn’t find that half as comforting as it once might have been.  
  
Fenris gave him an odd look. “This wasn’t Lirene,” he said. “Nor was the last time.”  
  
“It… wasn’t?”  
  
Fenris shook his head. At Anders’ puzzled look, he heaved a sigh and said, “You haven’t noticed Hawke’s little nervous cleaning habit? He’d have made a great elf.”  
  
Anders stared at him.  
  
“You saw how clean my mansion is now,” Fenris said, and only he could make that sound like a bad thing. “My feet keep slipping on the waxed floors.”  
  
“Oh sweet Maker.”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“I am _never_ going to let him live that down.” Fenris quirked an eyebrow, then glanced meaningfully around him at the clinic. Anders cleared his throat. “After thanking him… of course.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Shaking his head, Anders checked his stores to find them fully stocked. It made him feel a little guilty for being short with Hawke earlier.  
  
“Well… welcome home, I suppose,” Fenris said. Anders gave him a small smile. The elf shuffled, using one foot to scratch the other, and Anders arched an eyebrow at the nervous tick. “This place, it’s rather…” Fenris cleared his throat and started again, squaring his shoulders. “Should you… decide you’d like to sleep in an actual _bed_ again, my spare room is still yours, any night or every night.”  
  
After living in it for weeks, Anders was amused that Fenris had started to describe the mansion as ‘his’. There was nothing _of_ Fenris in that place except for his (gorgeous) body, but he supposed he could say much of the same for his clinic. Despite all the years he’s been here, all his belongings were still packed, ready to go in case he needed to flee at a moment’s notice.  
  
They were both runaways, in a sense, still learning how to call something _theirs_.  
  
“What about _your_ bed?” Anders teased. “Is that on offer too?” They hadn’t done more than kiss, despite Anders’ drunken advances, sober advances, and—in one humiliating instance—outright _pleading_ , but Anders was damned if he’d stop trying.  
  
Fenris smirked. “No.” At Anders’ pout, he added cheekily, “You snore.”  
  
“Well, it’s not like either of us sleeps well, really.”  
  
“True.”

Sidling up to the elf, Anders went on, “We could play the Magister and the slave.” Immediately Fenris bristled, but Anders batted his eyes and said, “You’d be the Magister, of course. I’d even let you hold my staff.” A few of Anders’ suspicions were confirmed when Fenris looked genuinely intrigued for a moment. Anders chuckled and kissed the corner of his jaw, trailing his lips up to whisper in his ear, “Or you could just come here and ravish me on one of these cots whenever you like.”  
  
Fenris turned as though to kiss him, only to smile an inch from his lips, a hand on Anders’ chin keeping him in place. “I’m sure I’ll have need of a healer or two in the next few days,” he said, and okay, using that voice was just _unfair_.  
  
“’Or two’?”  
  
“Like it would stop you.”  
  
Anders huffed but didn’t deny it.  
  
Justice was a constant rumble of thunder in the back of his mind, but for once he wasn’t talking about The Cause. “He says you’re beautiful, you know.”  
  
Fenris’ brows furrowed. “Who?”  
  
“Justice.” Anders was halfway between nauseated and amused. Fenris looked borderline terrified. “He won’t stop talking about it, really. It’s rather disturbing.”  
  
“Should I be expecting flowers and poetry from your Fade spirit, then?”  
  
Anders laughed and grimaced all in the one breath. “Please don’t give him ideas.” He wasn’t sure if he preferred this to Justice’s blatant disinterest in Hawke. “Anyway, he’s… calmer when you’re near. Almost purrs like a kitten, really.”  
  
“That is… disturbing.”  
  
“How do you think _I_ feel?”  
  
“You _like_ kittens.”  
  
Joking aside, Anders worried when he looked at Fenris, when he recalled the fear in his eyes when Justice had taken over. He hated to think this couldn’t last, whatever this was between them, but how could it?  
  
 ** _He is a distraction,_** Justice said, **_to both of us._**  
  
Anders’ smile slipped.  
  
 ** _We cannot keep him. You know this._**  
  
Anders did.  
  
Fenris tilted his chin up and caught his gaze. “You think too much.”  
  
“You’d best keep me distracted, then.” Anders wished Fenris would distract him always.  
  
Fenris kissed him, and he and Justice let out identical sighs, one for the taste of an elf, the other for the taste of lyrium.  
  
This would not last, Anders knew, but for the moment it was _his_.  
  
 _ **One day with him. We can allow ourselves that much.**_  
  
“Ourselves”… but there was Justice, taking away his control again, taking away one of the precious few things that were _his_.  
  
And he couldn’t hate the spirit for it, either. Not when Justice simply couldn’t understand.  
  
 ** _One day._** This was a spirit giving in to temptation. Spirit and host denied they knew what that meant.  
  
A thumb stroked Anders’ cheek, just under his eye, and Anders realized a tear had escaped. “Are you alright?” Fenris asked, eyes so large and soft and green this close, filled with a fragile adoration Anders knew he’d have to crush.  
  
“Stay?” Anders asked. Suddenly the clinic seemed full of cold, hard edges that pressed in at every angle, and he didn’t want to be here, alone with a voice in his head.  
  
Fenris nodded, brows furrowed, and brushed Anders’ lips with his. “Very well,” he murmured, half a question, and Anders breathed relief.  
  
For the moment, Anders let himself enjoy his touch, his closeness. For the moment, Justice would let him (them) be happy.  
  
Tomorrow was a different story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you can tell, I’ve left a few things open-ended. If there’s interest and if I find a prompt that fits, I might continue this. I’m open to suggestions, if there are any prompts you'd recommend, dear readers. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] (Almost) Always](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238769) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)




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